


bright lights won't leave me alone

by sunlightdances (glowinghorizons)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 10:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16831219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowinghorizons/pseuds/sunlightdances
Summary: Prompt: “We got involved in a fight at a bar and had to share the night in the same jail cell”





	bright lights won't leave me alone

In retrospect, you wish you had worn your boots instead of heels to the bar tonight. You had no idea when you were getting dressed, however, that you were going to punch a guy twice your size in the face.

You sigh loudly, pushing your hair out of your eyes as you try to get comfortable on the small wooden bench inside the jail cell.

“You alright over there, sweetheart?” An amused voice asks from across the room, and you scowl in his direction. Your knight in shining armor. You roll your eyes.

“Just fine, thanks.”

“Your hand is probably broken.”

You nod. “Probably.”

He makes a frustrated noise and you can’t help the smirk that settles on your lips. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to just punch a stranger in the face, but you totally had it handled. Even if Mr. Flannel over there hadn’t have stepped in, you probably would have been just fine.

“My name’s Dean.”

You snort. “That’s nice.”

“I’m just trying to–”

You sigh, “Look, if you’re looking for a thank you, you’re talking to the wrong girl. I didn’t ask for your help, and I didn’t need it. I had it handled.”

He looks slightly taken aback, and you watch with some satisfaction as the tips of his ears turn pink, almost like he’s embarrassed. You roll your eyes to yourself before you tell him quietly, “Sorry. I just– I’m not into the white knight thing, okay?”

He puts his hand up. “Message received.” Then, quieter, “Sorry.”

An awkward silence settles over the room. You groan to yourself. This is going to be a long night.

.

.

An hour or so passes before he says anything else, his deep voice startling you as you were dozing off, leaning against the bars of the jail cell.

“No one’s coming to get you?” He asks, and you look around blearily before your eyes settle on him, remembering where you are.

“What?”

“I asked if someone was coming to get you. We’ve been here almost two hours.”

“I didn’t call anyone.”

He frowns, “The guy is going to drop the charges eventually, you might as well have someone pay your bail–”

“Don’t have anyone to call.”

He stops then, eyes dropping to his lap. His thumb on his right hand haphazardly runs over the torn up knuckles on his left hand. “My brother didn’t answer the phone.” He tells you, but his tone suggests he’s surprised he said anything at all.

“Looks like we’re both stuck here, then.” You say, sending him a small smile. You know you’re being unfair - this guy, _Dean_ , was trying to do what he thought was the right thing. You know how it must have looked. It doesn’t make him a bad person that he’s clearly got a protective streak a mile wide. “I’m sorry for being such a bitch.” You tell him, and he snorts. “I appreciate you stepping in. Even though I had him clocked.”

He smirks, “Oh yeah. You had him _and_ his two friends totally taken care of.”

“First of all, yes, I did. Second of all–”

He grins, “Okay, okay. Yes. You had it handled. Happy now?” He asks, and you’re momentarily blindsided by the sight of his smile. Good lord, but he had nice teeth. You frown at yourself. What a weird thing to be attracted to.

“So do you always try to rescue girls in crowded bars?” You ask, turning to face him.

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling still. “No. I just– you punched that big dude right in the face, and the look in his eyes after…” He trails off and the smile slips off his face. “Anyway.”

“Yeah.” You look down at your hands, the knuckles on one of your hands so swollen you can’t see them anymore. When you look back up, his eyes are on you, the intensity in them surprising you.

“Does it hurt?”

“Oh, like a son of a bitch.”

“Can I…” He gestures towards you and suddenly your heart is in your throat. You find yourself nodding slowly, and he stands up to take a few steps towards you, your eyes drawn to how tall and broad he is. “Let’s see it.”

He takes your hand gently in the two of his, and a shudder works its way up your spine. You hope he doesn’t notice, but he clears his throat and turns your hand this way and that, eyes focused and determined. “I don’t think it’s broken.” He murmurs. “Gotta say–” he leans back against the wall, hands dropping yours, “I’ve never seen someone with shoes like that try to fight someone.”

You roll your eyes, “Are there fight-specific shoes?”

“See, I prefer boots instead of heels, but my legs don’t look as good as yours.”

You can’t help it - you laugh. You miss the way Dean’s eyes light up at the sound. A silence settles over the two of you but it’s not awkward. You start to feel tired and lean against the wall, and only straighten up again when the lights flicker overhead.

Dean tenses next to you, his eyes darting over the cell and the hallway, jaw clenched.

“Guess they didn’t pay the electricity this month,” you quip, trying to lighten the mood.

“Guess not,” Dean agrees, but his voice is rougher, and more dangerous.

A deputy shows up at the cell, opening it with more force than necessary. Dean is already on his feet, eyes dark.

“Out of the cell, Winchester.”

“I’m good right here.”

“Dean,” You hiss, “Go. Are you dumb?”

A minute later, one of the men you fought off for hitting on you in the bar appears behind the deputy, his face schooled into nonchalance, but a gleam in his eyes that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Dean–” You start to tell him you recognize that guy, but Dean’s already partially standing in front of you, shoulders tense.

“I want you to stay behind me. Just do what I say and you’ll be fine.” He says quickly.

The lights flicker overhead again, and for a quick second, you could have sworn you saw the Deputy’s eyes flash black.

Somewhere in the back of your head, you recognize what this is. You’re not a hunter. You’ve never been. Your Dad though? That’s an entirely different story.

_Winchester_. The name the Deputy called Dean rings through your head and your breath stutters when you recognize the name. Your Dad hunted with someone with the same last name, years and years ago before he was killed.

Yeah, you really wish you had worn your boots instead of your heels tonight.

.

.

.

Dean’s got an iron grip on the wrist on your uninjured hand and the two of you haul ass out of the police station.

“When we get to my car we’re going to talk about how the fuck you have a tattoo like that,” He says, his eyes flicking to where your shirt has ripped right above your hip bone, revealing a tattoo that your Dad insisted on you getting when you were sixteen. “First, though, we’re going to take another look at that hand.”

“Don’t we need to… I don’t know, get the hell out of here?”

“That’s why we’re going to my car. No offense, but mine is definitely faster.”

You roll your eyes but continue to follow him as he peels down an alley, your legs carrying you behind him as fast as you can go. Finally a sleek, black car appears in the distance, and you want to weep with how close you are to getting away from this nightmare.

All you wanted was a night out. A drink. Not to get caught up in some shitty reminder of the life you almost had, the life that ended up taking your Dad’s life.

This is what you get for thinking you could ever outrun this, you think bitterly, watching with resignation as Dean starts rifling through his trunk. You recognize the weapons, recognize the supplies, and you start to feel tears well up in your eyes as you remember distantly your Dad doing the same thing in the backyard at your house when you were a kid.

“Take this,” Dean says roughly, thrusting a flask at you. “Holy water.” He says, meeting your eyes.

“Thanks.” You mutter.

“Get in, let’s go. No telling if they’re following.”

No sooner has your door slammed than he’s taking off down the road, tires screeching.

“I feel like if you didn’t want people to notice you, you should have picked a different car.”

He glares, “Be nice to her.”

You chuckle. “This night is… not going how I pictured it.”

He glances at you before his gaze goes back to the road. “You gonna tell me how you knew what to do back there?” He asks, and your mind flashes back to your almost-immediate recitation of an exorcism.

You sigh. “My Dad.”

Dean frowns. “Your Dad is a hunter.”

“Was. He _was_.”

Dean is quiet. “Okay. Okay, listen. We’re going to go back to my place– don’t look at me like that.”

Your eyebrow is raised and you grin at him, tongue peeking through your teeth.

“It’s safe, okay? Besides. My brother who wouldn’t answer the phone is better at playing doctor than I am. He can take a look at your hand.”

.

.

A half hour later you’re pulling inside a retro looking garage.

“Dean!” A taller man you assume is Dean’s brother comes through the door, face contorted in anger. “Where the hell have you– oh.” He stops when he looks at you. “What happened?”

“Stray demon.”

“And who is this?”

Dean glances at you. “This is Katie. We shared a jail cell. She pissed off the stray demon.”

“Huh.” Sam scratches at his jaw. “Well, okay then. Come on.”

You follow Dean inside, trying like hell to get rid of the instinct screaming at you to run. There’s no way being connected to the Winchesters doesn’t pull you right back into the hunting life, and there’s no way you’re letting yourself get involved.

“Her hand might be broken, but I think it’s just a bad strain. Can you–”

“Yeah. I’ll take a look.” Sam says, smiling gently at you. He does a pretty similar test that Dean had done, but his touch doesn’t make you feel like Dean’s did. You try not to think about that too much.

After awhile, Dean comes back, and hands you a clean t-shirt. “It’ll probably be too big, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“Thanks.”

He cocks his head to one side. “You know, you’re not nearly as sassy as you were when I met you a few hours ago.”

You laugh, but it’s only to keep yourself from breaking down. “Funny how a demon can do that to a person.” You meet his eyes briefly. “All my life I’ve been running from this. Running from what really happened to my Dad, running from the life he wanted me to have… what kind of sick joke is it that I’d end up getting in a bar fight with you?”

He looks a little crestfallen, so you elbow him lightly in the side. “Don’t get me wrong. I can kick some ass, but I definitely couldn’t have taken on two guys alone. Thanks for helping me out.”

He smirks. “You sure you don’t want to be a hunter? You’ve definitely got the guts for it.”

“Not the shoes, though.” You joke, winking at him.

“I don’t know.” He glances down at your heels where they’re laying on the floor. “Seems like you’ve been doing just fine on your own.” He finishes softly, eyes meeting yours. Once again, you’re taken aback by just how green they are. “You should stay here a few days. Rest up. See if you really want to get out of all this.”

“Dean–”

“I know, I know. God knows I’ve wanted out enough times. Just seems like trouble follows you around, that’s all.”

You send him a look, and he throws his hands up in surrender.

“I just want a drink. Can we have a drink? I never got to finish mine.”

Dean grins. “That I can do.”

That night you and Dean talk until you can barely keep your eyes open, and you fall asleep leaning against his side, warm and curled up on a threadbare couch. In the morning, you trade small smiles and when you finally leave the bunker that afternoon, Dean drives you back to your car with his and Sam’s phone numbers scribbled on a piece of paper. He makes you promise to call if anything comes up, even anything that you don’t think is weird.

“Who knows,” he says, leaning against the open window of your car. “With ass kicking skills like that, maybe it’ll be me who calls you.” A wink and a grin, and he’s sliding into the Impala.

“Smooth bastard.” You mutter, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror with a smile.

Yeah, you think it’ll probably be sooner rather than later that you see Dean Winchester again.


End file.
